


Clean

by draculard



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hair Washing, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: She watches water pool into his cupped hand, watches steam drift up to obscure his smile. She’s crossing the room before she knows it, her bare feet silent on the carpet; she touches his shoulder as she passes him, and the feeling of his bare skin against her palm sends a nervous thrill through her — a thrill that’s still there, making her throat tight, as she grabs the shampoo.“Let me,” she says, voice soft.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

Rough, gentle. Bedelia could never claim that Hannibal’s hands are soft, but he knows how to touch people — how to run his fingers through her hair without pulling it, how to trace his fingernails over her scalp without digging in too deep. He’s capable of civility; worse, he’s talented at civility, shows off his proficiency every moment of every day, except when he’s killing.

It makes him smug, but she can’t argue with him over it; he really is good at playing polite. 

His palms are slick with soap — warm and broad as he massages expensive Italian shampoo into her hair and combs it through each lock, always moving gentle and slow. Bedelia tips her head back, lets the water rise to her chin so she can stare at him. Her eyes are hooded, glacial; his are hooded, too. He doesn’t seem to see her; maybe on some fundamental level, he sees her hair — a level tied to touch, sensation — but he doesn’t see  _ her _ . He feels the warmth of the water, the softness of her hair and skin; his expression is pleasant, almost smiling.

It’s a mask.

But it feels nice, Bedelia thinks, to let him bathe her — so she does. 

* * *

He never asks her to touch him; he manipulates, coaxes, tricks her into thinking she wants to touch him all on her own. It’s in the way he gets ready for his bath, undressing with the door open and the blinds up, the sun hitting his body at an angle that turns his skin golden and makes his eyes look deep and warm. He pretends not to see her watching, sits on the edge of the tub as he draws the bath.

She watches water pool into his cupped hand, watches steam drift up to obscure his smile. She’s crossing the room before she knows it, her bare feet silent on the carpet; she touches his shoulder as she passes him, and the feeling of his bare skin against her palm sends a nervous thrill through her — a thrill that’s still there, making her throat tight, as she grabs the shampoo.

“Let me,” she says, voice soft. 

He lowers himself into the bathtub, tips his head back. The sachet of dried herbs beneath the faucet disorients Bedelia, fills her lungs with the scent of flowers. She combs her fingers through Hannibal’s hair, just scratching his scalp, not washing it clean yet, and watches as his eyes slide closed and he hums, content to be touched.

They say rosemary refuses to grow in the gardens of evil people, Bedelia remembers. Hannibal uses it to scent his bathwater.

* * *

The hair he’s washing is blonde, but if he lets himself lose focus, it seems almost ashy, like Mischa’s was. Only when he blinks does he see that it isn’t ash he sees; it’s streaks of silver. But it’s only a passing observation; he notes it, reminds himself where he is and who is in the tub before him, and then he feels himself slip away again.

There’s something soothing about this; the silky sweep of her hair over his palms, the scent of soap, the comfort of warm water against his skin when he dips his hand into the tub and trails his fingers down her side. He finds himself helping her with things she hasn’t asked for, his mind a thousand years away.

It’s evening, but he sees the gleam of sunlight reflecting off an old tin tub. It’s warm outside, but he feels the chill of winter air against the back of his neck, and when he rolls his sleeves up, the hair on his forearms is standing on end.

He guides Bedelia’s head beneath the water, holds her there. Forces himself to study her face, her open eyes.

Hears an explosion. Feels snow against his cheek, sharp and icy enough to cut him open. Tastes gristle between his teeth, hears a muted clatter as Bedelia shifts her foot, looks down in time to see baby teeth floating a few centimeters from the bottom of the tub.

Closes his eyes again. Squeezes them tight, waits for the taste of human flesh to fade. He feels Bedelia’s hand against his cheek in the meantime, touching him lightly, grounding him until it’s over.

And then he feels her hand dip lower, brushing between his legs. Feeling the evidence of arousal there. He meets Bedelia’s gaze from beneath his eyelashes, feels a smile tugging at his lips.

“What’s the psychology behind this?” Bedelia murmurs, using his tie to tug him closer. “What’s so exciting about bathing me?”

He doesn’t answer. He lets his smile grow, leans forward, presses his lips against her neck and kisses her.

Tastes her skin. 


End file.
